


of promises kept and broken

by nazdarovye



Category: The Deer Hunter (1978)
Genre: Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, homosocial bonding™, potential smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:27:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25457773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nazdarovye/pseuds/nazdarovye
Summary: Mike comes home empty-handed, and empty-hearted. In other words; a character study.
Relationships: Nikanor "Nick" Chevotarevich/Michael "Mike" Vronsky
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	of promises kept and broken

**Author's Note:**

> before you read this, I am not a writer by any means. I was just compelled to tell a story. 
> 
> obviously, I don't own any of these characters, all of those belong to paramount pictures and michael cimino.
> 
> lastly, I wrote this for the people out there like me who really want to read shit like this in the first place. there is a severe lack of representation of classic film in the fanfiction community. we need to change that.

> _If_ _anything happens, Mike…_

Mike listens to the click of the empty chamber from the barrel nestled in Nicky’s red bandana, sees something like life rise from the swamp in his friend’s eyes, feels the palpable relief on his tongue. It might as well have been lost to the sea of shouting men, passing bills back and forth, putting a number on his life, on Nicky’s. He needs Nick to say something, anything.The slide of metal on wood, the gun grasped in his shaking fingers. His turn again. "Is this what you want?" He asks it quietly, willing himself to look whoever the fuck this was in the eyes. Nick was long gone, and who's fault is that? 

He presses the cold steel to his temple, feels terror manifesting through beads of sweat at the back of his neck. He hears himself pleading, “Nicky, **I love you**. I love you,” and it’s true. He did. He does. He needs Nick to say something, anything. He needs to know his pal is in there, somewhere, buried under the grime of trauma, sullied by war. 

When he closes his eyes, he sees Nicky, sunlight like a halo around his feather soft blonde head. Sees him waving from the top of a hill, calling Mike over to inspect his first deer. Sees him blushing across the dance-floor at Stevie’s wedding, beer-drunk and giddy. Sees him laughing as Axel makes a fool out of himself at the bar, he opens them when he hears the click for the third time. The stale, smoky air is starting to make his head spin. Nicky blinks blankly at the gun as it’s being handed to him. Looks back at Mike, scoffs. His eyes are cold, hard, unrelenting, almost clouded over. Like a murky lake. Mike feels the tears beginning to come, Nicky would never look at him like that. Mike had his eyes committed to memory, the way they would crinkle at the corners when he smiled, the way they bore into his heart when Nicky knew Mike was lying, the way they would slowly blink awake in the mornings, squinting at the sunrise through the blinds of the camper window. 

When Nicky moves to grab the gun for his turn, Mike gasps in horror. Nicky’s arms. They had been ravaged by little pinpricks and bruises, the scars many veterans brought home from Vietnam. He grabs Nicky’s forearm, and Nicky flinches. He’s been hurt time and time again, Mike can tell. “Wait a minute,” he’s stalling for time, all he needs is more time. The crowd must sense it, they’re getting impatient. “Nick, what did you do to your arms?” 

“Nicky,” he almost hisses it. It sounds desperate. “Don’t you remember all the different ways of the trees?” Nick tilts his head a bit. _Finally,_ Mike is reaching him. “The mountains? You remember all that?” He can hear the thick strain of sadness in his voice. 

“One shot.” Mike’s grip loosens in relief. “Yeah.” It comes out breathy, it comes out _Nicky._ It’s bizarre. Nicky almost giggles. but before Mike can blink, Nicky’s arm is twisting out of his grip, out of reach. And then, Mike’s world stops. He sees the blood before he even hears the crack of a bullet ripping through skin, a skull, a brain. He’s on Nicky before Nicky can even drop to the ground, holding him. The crowd roars. The American has fallen. Mike is crying now, sobs wracking his body as he screams for Nicky, asks God himself directly; “why, why, why, why.” It’s all he can do before he’s being pulled away. 

> _If anything happens, Mike. You gotta promise not to leave me here._

*+*+*

The next thing he knows, he’s on a plane. Nicky is below him, in the cargo-hold, dead. Nicky, who shone like the sun, who was never meant for the filth and corruption of war. _It should have been me._ Everyone liked Nicky, he was fun, vibrant, easy to talk to. 

_Was._ Just the thought of the word filled his mouth with a sharp, unpleasant, metallic taste. Mike feels like he’s failed. He feels sick, he feels tired. He wants to go to sleep. 

Everyone always wondered why he and Mike were so close. Mike wondered sometimes too. He couldn’t believe his luck, all those years by Nicky’s side. _Opposites attract,_ he hears Nicky’s voice in a not-so-distant memory. He wonders how he’ll break the news. How he’ll tell the others he failed, went back on the one promise he made. He stops wondering, once he imagines how Linda will take it. Nicky was thinking about marrying her. He really did love her, in a way. Mike had spent nights awake, some withNicky curled against him, thinking about which love would win out. He wondered, now that Linda and him were so close, if he should ever tell her the honest to God truth. 

The whole flight, he didn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Nicky, and he wasn’t ready to see Nicky yet. If there was one thing Nicky ever told him, it was that Mike could not deal with feelings, emotions, anything like that. Nicky was always right. It was one of the little hairline fractures in what they had. Nicky, full to the brim of feeling. Mike, not closed off per say, but distant nonetheless. 

If only he told Nicky how much he loved him half as many of the times he wanted to. Nicky threw those words around like it was nothing. He could whisper it, say it, shout it, even. He must have told Mike a thousand times. Why couldn’t Mike say it until it was too late? Until he had everything to lose? He feels sick, he feels tired. He wants to go to sleep. His eyes flutter shut, fly back open when he sees red spattering on a dingy wood floor. 

*+*+*

The wedding is over, they’re leaning on each other’s shoulders for support, practically crawling back to the camper. The cold air has sobered Mike up, Nicky is blinking up at him, cheeks flushed pink, stupid smile, shining teeth. They’d followed the trail of Mike’s clothes, and he found most of them, except for his underwear, socks, and one shoe. Nick is rambling about something he always rambles about when he’s drunk. Just how much he loves Mike. Mike listens fondly, knows he means some of it, knows he’s a flirty drunk, a giggly drunk, roly-poly and touchy-feely. Nick’s slender fingers find purchase on Mike’s bicep, slipping with the cheap material of Mike’s cheap tux.

“Mikey, right in this second, we are the only people in the world,” Nick whispered. “Us. It’s us, and everybody else is far, far away.” Mike laughed and reached around to swat Nick lovingly on the head. 

“Fuckin’ A.” He barked in his best Axel, which made Nicky almost fall over in a fit of alcohol induced laughter. 

“Fuckin’ A” Nicky echoed, and they skipped and stumbled back to the camper, and Mike struggled with the door, Nick hanging on his shoulder, and when they made it inside, Mike made to let go of Nicky’s waist, but Nicky tightened his grip. When Mike looked over to see what Nicky wanted, his smile was gone, but his eyes were soft. Day was breaking, soon they would have to get everything together for the hunting trip. In the soft light of early dawn, Nicky was striking, facial features alight with the glow. He cocked his head, almost like a cat, opened his mouth to say something.

And then Mike was awake, breathing hard. Linda stirred next to him. He tried to calm himself down, couldn’t, and resigned himself to waking up for good. 

The funeral was later that day. Preparations needed to be made, but Mike couldn’t move. He always had so much trouble living in the camper when he came back. Everything reminded him of Nick, it even still smelled like him somehow. That was why he couldn’t go back. Why he spent the first few weeks home in a motel, until Linda finally coaxed him back, but even then it was challenging. Nicky’s favorite mug gathering dust on the shelf, Nicky’s bed, neatly made. If Nick were really there, his blankets would be a mess. Mike always teased him gently, _Nicky,_ he would say, _you’re like a bird with that nest._

 _Yeah Mike, a fuckin’ bald eagle._ He was crying now. Silent tears. He was supposed to be the strong one, level headed, the fuckin’ fearless leader. He felt useless, small. The world was too big for him and him alone, he needed someone to share the load. _What would you do without me, Mike?_

“I don’t know, Nicky. God damn it, I _don’t_ know.” He collapses on the floor, part grief and part exhaustion. Linda is at his side then, soothing him, rubbing his back. He leans into the touch, her hand is small, movement practiced. She’s made to comfort, made to listen and love unconditionally. Maybe that’s why Nicky loved her so much, maybe that’s why Mike is learning to. He knows it’s pretty fucked, being with his best friend’s girl, but in a way, Mike and Linda understand each other more than they would know. They both feel the empty ache of something ripped away from them too soon. A part of each of them will be buried along with the casket today, and if it’s easier to brave a world without Nicky together, they’d do it. He gets off the floor. _Pathetic._ Goes to put on some coffee, tries to ask Linda if she wants some, no sound comes out. Thankfully she understands and nods. He tries to think of anything but Nick, he can’t do it. Not a day went by where he didn’t since the moment he came back from the war. 

Linda is next to him now, warm hand on his forearm. “Michael, you did everything you could.” He breaks again. 

“I was supposed to bring him back, he told me-” He can’t even finish the sentence. Linda is hugging him, shushing him for the millionth time since he got back. 

“It’s not your fault, Michael, really.” _It is._ Oh God, it is. 

He tells Linda he’s going to take a shower, locks himself in the bathroom. Turns the water on and times it with a painful sob so she can’t hear. He never could cry in front of people, never really had anything to cry about. Nick cried all the time, he was the real sentimental type. He could get worked up real easy. Mike had probably cried more in the past week than he had his entire life. _Maybe you did the crying for the both of us, Nicky._ Mike steps under the boiling stream. 

*+*+*

The funeral is overwhelming. People wanted to know what had happened there, in Saigon. Mike told them, how could they know exactly what it all meant? They respectfully ignore the way his voice cracks. They tell him how sorry they are. They tell him how horrible it must have been. They ask him if he’s glad to be out of that hellhole for good. He thinks he’ll never get out. He doesn’t say that. 

When the service is over, they head back to the bar. John is making eggs in the kitchen. Someone tries to talk about the weather. No one wants to talk, least of all Mike. Mike just wants to go home, and maybe now that Nick is in the ground he’ll get out of his head. Maybe he can get three hours in a row of sleep. _Un-fucking-likely._ John is humming in the kitchen, soon enough everyone is singing along. 

> _God bless America, land that I love_
> 
> _Stand beside her and guide her_
> 
> _Through the night with the light from above_

Mike chooses to ignore the irony. 

*+*+*

He says his last goodbyes to everyone. Axel, John, Stan, Stevie. They’ve all gone home, even Linda. She told him she would see him later, she probably understood he needed some time alone. She was perceptive like that, _like Nick_. He needs to move around, so he walks. He walks and thinks until he finds himself outside that motel. He can’t go home tonight. He can’t face Linda. She’ll be worried, he’ll call her and tell her where he is. _But she’ll come and see you,_ he thought. He’ll let her worry. _A fucking disappointment there, and another here._

“Why couldn’t I bring you back, huh?” He says it softly, to the faint buzz of silence around him. To the soft glow of the lamp, the pillow with a stain on the case. He falls down onto the bed, doesn’t bother to undress. He likes this motel, he likes the way the train rocks the whole building. He's found, after his time in 'Nam, that silence is unnerving. He didn't used to be like that, before the war when everything was pure and easy and safe he would kick Nicky out of his bed for snoring too loud. Silence was the calm before the storm over in the deep jungles and expansive plains of Vietnam. A twig snaps, and chaos erupts, and a hail of bullets from all sides follows suit. Silence was the enemy there, worse than any Vietcong soldier. The train drove Linda crazy. 

“I love you. I love you, I love you.” He whispers it over and over under his breath. They're sitting at the kitchen counter, sipping coffee on a Sunday. They're walking home from a shift. Doing the dishes. Nicky's crawling into his bed again. Those big blue eyes are staring inquisitively at him while he yells at Walter Cronkite. _I love you_. A lullaby to himself, it won't reach Nicky down there, but he hopes Nicky made it to heaven, where there's mountains for miles. He wakes up an hour later, red spattered under his eyelids, blank blue pinpoints, warmth seeping through his shirt, pants, staining his hands, tears rolling down his cheeks. 

**Author's Note:**

> firstly, thank you for reading this. secondly, this movie is so near and dear to my heart. thirdly, these men were in love. that is unequivocal.


End file.
